Realistically
by ecj30
Summary: "Realistically, she knew that it wasn't the best decision...maybe this was something she could have—should have—done more to avoid. But, realistically...she knew that she wouldn't have left, even if given the chance."


_Realistic: adj. – __1.__ interested in, concerned with, or based on what is real or practical__._

Realistically, she knew that it wasn't the best decision. After all, they had just finished a case and everyone was exhausted. Four 16-hour work days in a row can take a toll. Especially when all of those days had included intense, time consuming, more-often-than-not disappointingly fruitless interrogations with holier-than-thou suspects and witnesses unwilling to offer information. And especially when two of those days had included drawn out foot chases through downtown D.C., weaving in and out of vehicles and tourists like no one's business. And, most especially, after having gotten into a scuffle with suspect and being shot at. Twice.

She felt safe coming to the conclusion that she was, in fact, tired. And rightfully so, she might add. Although somewhere deep inside she heard a voice, eerily like her father's, telling her to man up and keep going, that this was nothing. It was funny, she thought, as she had never remembered her father using terms that were so…Tony-esque.

Nevertheless, Ziva continued thinking about the past few days and how they had led to her current predicament. If it could even be called that, she thought. A predicament, as far as she could tell, even with her still somewhat limited knowledge of American connotations, seemed to portray something negative. And maybe it was, maybe this was something she could have—_should_ have—done more to avoid. But, realistically…she knew that she wouldn't have left, even if given the chance.

The case had seemed so straightforward at first, so cut and dry. A victim, a murder weapon, a fingerprint. Even a relationship between said victim and said fingerprint had presented itself quite readily. Open and closed.

But they could never just be that simple.

One relationship led to another, and another, and another, and soon enough they found themselves drowning in potential suspects and witnesses. The files piled so high on Tony's desk she could barely see his hair spiking over the top. Phone calls had to be made, people brought in for questioning, and before she knew it, she was running quite steadily down 10th street, chasing after a well-trained Marine.

This well-trained Marine, after having been backed into a corner, took an aimless shot at her, unexpected by a man of his skill, then went suicide-by-cop as Tony rounded the corner and put two in his chest.

And that was just the second day. "A little excitement for our otherwise mundane Tuesday," as Tony had later said.

By Thursday, tension was high amongst the team, and the impatience was tangible in the bullpen. Their simple case had turned out to be everything but, and not a single person wasn't completely frustrated. Gibbs' hand found the back of everyone's head with ease, Tony's jokes took on a snide nature, and Ziva had pulled her knife on McGee at least once. Then Abby made a break, as Abby usually does, and they nailed the guy, a 43 year old teacher by day, drug dealer by night.

The case hadn't closed soon enough; it was looking like they'd ring in Friday morning still at the Navy Yard if it hadn't been for Abby. Gibbs had, for once, taken mercy on them and left the mounds of paperwork for the next day, allowing them to leave around eight. A few hours of sleep, a shower, then back to business for just another day before the long-awaited weekend.

She and Tony had ridden the elevator down to the parking garage in uncomfortable, stifling silence. Both were still reeling and on edge and neither of them went out of their way to be particularly cordial while under such stress. They both needed relief and as she had walked to her car, she thought about how, realistically, she would have gone home, perhaps gone for a run to release her pent-up excess energy, then taken a shower and slept, and how, realistically, he might've gone to his place, had a few drinks, then crashed on his couch, watching an old movie to relax.

But then, she thought, as she stepped into her car, had anything this week been realistic?

Sure, they had had long cases before. She'd been shot at several times, and worse, so that was nothing new. She and Tony had refused to speak for far less than what they were now. This time felt different though, she imagined, as she pulled out of the Yard. Never before had she lost her temper in such a violent way at McGee. The almost tragic suicide-by-cop still didn't add up in her mind. And, regardless, it had been a tough case.

She needed to stop making excuses, she decided, pulling up to her building.

She checked her watch. 8:26. Less than twelve hours to get some sort of sleep, regain some sort of rationality, and be back at work.

Realistically, that was just enough time. Just enough time for her to wind down, catch up on much needed rest, and be prime the next day. She knew, in the logical recesses of her mind, that it was time to call it a day.

Ideally, though…now that was another matter. Deciding that twelve hours left her with more than enough spare time, she put her car into reverse and pulled away from her building. As she drove, she decided to blame her spur of the moment, most likely inopportune decision on the case. Her lack of sleep surely had a direct correlation with her lack of practicality. Ideally, when she showed up at his apartment, he would welcome her in with a smile, perhaps a hug, and they would talk and laugh about their week, watch a movie, and she would be on her merry way to spend the remaining eight hours blissfully asleep in her own bed. Realistically, when she showed up, he would already be well on his way to being drunk, and _if_ he let her in the door, it would only be for them to get into yet another argument before she stormed off and got a pitiful five hours of restless sleep before antagonizing him more at work.

Realistically, she should have turned the car back around and avoided the whole situation.  
Realistically, they would have been back to normal the next day.

But with her lips pressed against his, as they had been for some time now, it became increasingly difficult to think about how this would have realistically happened. So little of what happened between them was realistic; it might as well not even be a standard by which to compare anymore. And, as his mouth tilted just _so_, causing her to let out a low moan, she decided she might as well throw idealism out the window too, because not even in her wildest dreams—and there had been some pretty wild ones—could she have imagined these events unfolding like this.

They broke apart, the need for air unfortunately outweighing the desire to continue remaining connected, and she thought for a moment about the series of events from arriving at his door, suddenly unsure of her decision. She knew that this, of all times, was not appropriate to turn into analytical, logical—_realistic_—Ziva, not when Tony's lips were suddenly trailing down her neck, but she supposed it was just so engrained that it was unavoidable.

Unavoidable. Maybe that's what this was, after all. Just as she began to question her standard philosophy on inevitability, Tony's hands, once content to tangle in her curls, found their way to her waist, teasing the sliver of exposed skin below her shirt.

At that, she slid her fingers into his already mussed hair and directed his mouth back up to hers. She sighed contently and he quietly groaned, stepping forward so she was pressed against the wall.

Pressed against the wall in Tony's apartment at 9:00 on a Thursday night was not quite how she had envisioned things, especially taking into consideration how the evening had progressed once he opened the door. Her realistic scenario had seemed to be the victor, as she could smell the alcohol on his breath the second she walked in, and they had begun arguing about who-knows-what minutes later. Just as she was making up her mind to either shoot him or storm out the door, she heard an exasperated "oh, fuck it," and he grabbed her, one hand on her waist, pulling her towards him, and one on her face, fingers teasing into her hair.

Realistically, she knew that this would probably happen, and she knew it would probably be sooner than later. Although with the past five years as a standard, it was just as much a miracle as a given that they ever actually made it together.

But as her hands started unbuttoning his shirt and he subtly directed her towards his bedroom, his tongue deliciously slipping between her lips, she decided that she could think about this some other time. For once, reality wasn't so bad.

They stumbled onto the bed together, clothes falling haphazardly to the ground, giving her hardly any time to decide if this is something she wanted. Then his mouth found hers again, and before long she was crying out in bliss, his name on her lips.

Afterwards, she lay there, catching her breath, and she thought once again about how this was perhaps a flaw in her judgment, how things should have happened differently. Then again, as she turned to Tony and saw his grin before he kissed her again, she knew that, realistically, she wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
